Light Such A Candle
by LadySilver
Summary: Drusilla's birthday present is long for this world. Crossover with Highlander: the Series.


A/N: This story is set sometime prior to the Buffy episode "What's My Line - Part 2." 

**Light Such A Candle**

"Happy birthday," Spike said with a broad gesture at the young man who was shackled to rough stone walls of the basement. The manacles on his wrists and ankles gave him only enough chain to rattle.

He was conscious. Barely. His head lolled and his half opened eyes saw but didn't focus on the two people standing in front of him.

Drusilla clasped her hands to her breast in wonder. "Oh, he glows such pretty colors."

Spike rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling as he answered, "Just because he sparkles, Pet, doesn't mean he won't taste good." He tried not to sound too bored. "We have a massacre tonight," he reminded her, his mood brightening, "and you will need--" he stepped up behind her, ran his hands lightly down her arms, "--all--" nuzzled the back of her neck, "--your strength." She relaxed against the caresses, accepting his draped arms around her. Into her ear, he added, "Make sure you eat."

"He won't taste good," Drusilla pouted, tensing in his arms.

"How can you know you don't like him until you've tried him?" Spike asked, a parental tone creeping into his words. He eyed the young man, but saw no source for Dru's dissatisfaction. A line of blood leaked from the knot just above the man's temple, the only evident mar to his body. Spike had found the guy at the community basketball court, practicing his free throws. His shirt had come off before Spike arrived; his shoes in the struggle afterwards. Now he was naked to the waist, barefoot. His tanned body was well-proportioned and muscled, and his too loose khaki shorts hung low on his hips. In fact, he looked and smelled healthy enough to consider keeping around for awhile.

"He has blood like a Saint's." She tilted her head back and to the side so she was looking at him from below. "It'll make my lips burn." Her lips made a moue as if in anticipation of the bad taste.

"Bugger that," Spike replied, pushing her away. She stumbled a step, caught herself, and grinned back at him, taking up the invitation he hadn't meant to extend. "I've a party to prepare, luv. Those games will have to wait until later." He turned to leave, his black coat swishing around his ankles. "Eat," he said over his shoulder. "We can always get another one." Drusilla didn't respond. Possibly the man drew a sharp breath, but it was no fun scaring mortals once they were rendered helpless, so Spike didn't spare a glance to check. The reek of fear in the air told him everything.

Hands again pressed to her heart, Drusilla shook her head slowly. "He can't see how lovely you are, the colors that swirl about your head and call to your kith. But there're worms in the apple. Worms that burrow deep and keep the fruit for themselves."

The man pulled his head up to look at her. The torchlight made his eyes glitter and shadows play about his body.

"Are you thirsty?" Dru asked.

His lips moved, tongue flicking over them, but no words came out. After a moment he nodded.

She stepped away. His consciousness still not stable, it was hard to know how long it took until she returned. Maybe he passed out a few times; maybe he just wished he could. He was awake when she pressed a small china tea cup to his mouth.

"Don't drink quickly or you'll scald your tongue," she warned. "Miss Vivian likes her tea very hot and with too much sugar."

She tilted to the cup slowly and the man slurped at the brackish water it contained. He screwed up his face at the bitter taste, but kept drinking until the cup was empty.

As soon as he was finished, Dru let the cup slip from her fingers. It shattered on the cement floor, pieces skittering in all directions. She gave no indication of noticing, instead she pressed her nose to the man's neck and inhaled deeply. He flinched and tried to kick away. The chains scraped against the wall and held him firmly in place.

"Don't fret," she whispered into his skin. "You're going to play a game."

"Are you. Going to. Kill me?" he asked. His voice was rough with disuse and barely audible.

"Wouldn't be any fun," she pouted, stepping far enough back that he could no longer touch her. China crunched beneath her feet. "It won't take."

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to reassemble her words in an order that made sense. There wasn't one. "What?" he croaked out. Then, without waiting for a response, "Let me go." Louder, voice a little stronger.

"Wouldn't be any fun, either," she said. "It's my birthday and it is disrespectful to return a gift without opening it."

She stopped talking then, cocked her head and started to stare at him. Her gaze drifted from just over his left shoulder to just to the right of his chest, then seemed to trace his body. As if she were looking for something. Or at something.

The air was damp, heavy. Smelled like old, dead things. It stuck to them and seemed unwilling to share.

"Count to ten," he interrupted. It was hard to draw a breath. When she met his eyes, he added, "You said we were going to play a game. You're It'." He couldn't escape. They'd seen to that. His shoulder muscles had long since grown tired from supporting most of his weight; his feet touched the floor, but not by much. He couldn't escape, he couldn't seem to pass out again, so all he could do was play along. To try to ease the stiffness, he tensed his shoulders, drawing his body up a little bit and then relaxing them.

Drusilla seemed to take this as a sign of his intended participation. Obligingly she covered her face and started to count. "One ... two ... three ..."

He flexed his shoulders again and groaned from the pain.

From somewhere outside the room came a muffled chanting. The language was not English.

On six, Drusilla paused and peeked out between her fingers. Seeing that the man was still exactly where she had left him, she dropped her hands.

"Seven," he prompted.

"A gentleman mustn't ever ask a lady how old she is," she responded.

"Sorry?" he said, not sure if he was or what about. Then, "Where's that friend of yours? The creepy blond guy?"

"We're going to have a party," she reminded him. "There'll be cake and ice-cream, and for dessert we will slaughter a village."

"Let me go!" the man pleaded, his tone growing increasingly desperate. "I don't have anything to give you."

Drusilla lifted her right hand. A small metal object dangled from between her index finger and thumb. It caught the torchlight and reflected some back. She let it swing there for a moment.

The key.

The man threw himself around in his chains as best as the limited slack and his numb muscles allowed. A smattering of rock dust and rotten spider-webs fell from the ceiling. "Don't kill me. Please. Just let me go."

With her other hand Drusilla made a "close your mouth" gesture. "No. We're not to get underfoot until the party begins."

"Then what?" he asked.

Her lips widened into a not-quite smile that spoke louder than anything she could have said.

A small noise squeaked from the back of his throat. "I don't want to die." Now he was whimpering. "What do you want?"

Her fist closed around the key and swallowed it. Then, as if continuing a discarded conversation she lifted her arms straight above her head in a ballet-like move. "Oh, they're such dancers," she said. She took two tiny steps on tip-toe. "They dance, and the moonlight whispers a pretty little tune on the steel." Lowering her voice to an admonishing hush, she looked vaguely towards him and added, "But good little children must never tattle."

"Okay," he agreed with a series of quick nods. "I won't tell. I promise."

"No, luv," she agreed. "I believe you won't." Again, she moved so close that the bottom of her nightgown almost brushed against his feet. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, morphing into her vampire face.

With her that close and the lighting so inconsistent, it took him a second just to realize anything had changed. Then he saw the jagged, pointed teeth. The yellow eyes. The odd ridges around her nose and brow. It took another long moment before his brain processed the items as part of a whole.

He screamed.

From elsewhere, the chanting changed in volume and timbre. It also grew more desperate.

"That's no way to treat the birthday girl," Drusilla said, the hurt evident. "Say you're sorry."

The sounds he made next were incoherent, animalistic.

"That's better," she said. With deft movements, she produced the key and inserted it into the first lock. The manacle around the man's left wrist fell away; his arm dropped to his side like a shattered dream. The second wrist manacle opened and his whole body fell to the floor. He was shaking, shivering.

"Our cake is all afire," she announced, sliding down next to him. "One by one we must snuff out the candles." She pinched at the air around his face as if extinguishing tiny flames. "The last one," she whispered in his ear, "gets a present. He gets to make a wish." She still wore her vampire face.

His noises had started to turn back into words, all of which were "please."

The man didn't move. Couldn't move. His feet were still secured to the wall; his upper body only beginning to wake up.

"I know what you wish," she said in a breathy voice. "You want to live." She tapped her lips with a French-tipped forefinger as if giving the request serious consideration. Below her, the man shivered and quaked. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. Suddenly she stood up, the request apparently rejected. The key dropped with a thin clatter to his side, well within reach once his fingers were working well enough to grab for it. "OK," she said, sweetly.

Reaching back down she snapped his neck.

END

A/N: This story was written in response to a challenge to write a crossover with the big Revelation of Secrets done in character. Just to clarify, the Highlander character is an OC, and is a pre-immortal at the opening of the story. This story also assumes that the Quickening affects vampires in much the same way that holy water does, hence the reason we never canonically see vampires keeping Immortals as self-perpetuating food sources.


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